


Till Morning Comes

by slashedsilver



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Double-cross, M/M, Spy-for-the-Order!Draco, Wartime
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-23
Updated: 2013-09-23
Packaged: 2017-12-27 10:49:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/977898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slashedsilver/pseuds/slashedsilver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the war, Harry waits.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Till Morning Comes

**Author's Note:**

> A wartime AU. Written for the Saturday Special challenge at hh_sugarquill, for the prompt, "Prisoner of Azkaban."

The war ended on a high note.

The victors celebrated with wine and feasts they hadn't seen the likes of since the fateful day Hogwarts had been overthrown. There would be time to mourn their dead. There would be time for the clean up and the massive rebuilding projects. Now, they wanted to celebrate the reinforced hope that good would always triumph over evil, that no darkness is ever complete, that the coldest hour is right before dawn.

Mostly, at least.

From the grounds of Grimmauld Place, which had been used as the Order's headquarters, and was only fitting as the celebratory location to mark the end of the war, Harry Potter slipped away under the cover of darkness, to find the one person he could no longer save. There was no testimony that could save a double-cross so deep, only two people knew of its existence.

And the one who could have given a testimony that would have been respected and heard by the Wizengamot -- he was already dead.

Harry found the figure kneeling at the grounds of the ruined Manor, clutching an embroidered handkerchief in his hands. Harry recognised the pattern from afar -- the elaborately stitched "N" that formed the initial of the second last Malfoy. Broken and shivering and almost too much for Harry to bear, the final Malfoy trembled, head bowed and body slumped, awaiting what he knew was coming. Imprisonment, if he was lucky. If he wasn't... it would be the Dementor's Kiss.

 _This is the last time I will get to see him. This is the last time I will get to speak with him._ The thoughts seemed surreal, detached. Harry focused on putting one foot in front of the other, eyes never leaving the small figure, until he was standing, close enough to touch. Around the boy's right wrist, one half of a manacle was affixed, the chains thinning into a length of thread which gleamed silver into the night. Harry knew that if he followed it, it would lead to the Ministry. A small favour. One last night, one last illusion of freedom for the convicted Death Eater.

The lump in Harry's throat was nearly too large for him to speak around. Heedless of the discomfort, he forced out a greeting despite it.

"Draco," he said, and his voice cracked, uncooperative in his turmoil.

The figure barely moved, but he did turn his head slightly in Harry's direction, a silent acknowledgement. Harry watched the blond strands fall into Draco's eyes, wondered if it would hurt more if he indulged himself one last touch -- and recklessly decided that he did not care. He extended his hand out before he was fully conscious, fingers running through the feather-soft hair, grimy with sweat and possibly matted with tears. To Harry, Draco's hair would always have this quality: too soft and too vulnerable for the world it had been thrust into, but always gleaming white-blond despite the dust and grime and blood, tainted and ruined but still Harry's beacon of hope, Harry's reason for living.

And now, he might lose him forever.

Overwhelmed with sudden emotion, Harry insinuated himself behind Draco, tentatively placing his hands on him, trying to surround him in a loose, unthreatening embrace. Approaching Draco was very often an art in itself, but for once, Draco did not complain or pull away, but leaned back against Harry instead -- almost imperceptibly at first, then inch by inch, until Harry threw caution to the wind and wrapped his arms around Draco, firm and unyielding. He would sit here all night if he had to. This could be their last time together.

Draco sighed, and turned back slightly to face Harry. His grey eyes were swollen red, and Harry could see the tear tracks down his cheeks, lines where the dust had mixed into the tears, and left careless streaks down Draco's pale face. He reached a tender hand out, attempting to smooth them away. They had no right to be there. No right at all.

He did not realise that his movements had started to get frantic until Draco's hand came up and caught Harry's hand in his.

"Harry," Draco said quietly. "Calm down. It's beyond our control now."

"It's not fair," Harry whispered, and he was horrified to feel his eyes filling up with tears. Angry tears, hot with the feeling of injustice. "You gave so much. You _fought_ for us, and they'll never know it -- they'll never know what you did -- "

Through his blurry tears, he felt rather than saw Draco reach out and slip his glasses off his face, and then Draco's warm fingers were on his face.

"Harry," he kept saying, whether in entreaty or to placate, Harry was no longer sure. But he knew that Draco was the one who was facing his trial in the morning, and yet Harry was the one breaking down and drawing strength from Draco once again.

With great effort, Harry forced himself to control his emotions, hiccoughing slightly, and swiped a hand across his face. Tenderly, Draco placed his glasses back on his face, and they stared at each other for a while.

Harry spent his time cataloguing and memorising every last eyelash, every last freckle on Draco's face. Draco would have vehemently denied being in any way related to the Weasleys, if he had known what Harry was doing. Harry would have laughed and teased him some more, even though the fact was that Draco's freckles were very faint, and you had to really approach Draco and stare closely to see them. A private rush of pleasure swept through Harry at the thought of being the only one to see Draco up near like this -- close and trusting, open and vulnerable. Others would scoff to hear it. Harry alone knew the truth.

He had no idea what Draco was doing as he carefully mapped out Draco's face, but when their eyes met again, the air was charged with emotion, and Harry shivered involuntarily.

In response to an unspoken cue, like unwritten steps to a dance, they leaned in.

Draco's lips were soft and tasted salty, and they parted easily around Harry, allowing him entrance. Harry's heart felt like it would burst with the overwhelming sensation of Draco surrendering to him -- the exact moment when Harry carefully slid his way into Draco's mouth, as Draco opened around him, sweetly yielding. Fiercely, Harry vowed that no one would ever take this away from him. They would have to kill him first.

The kiss turned desperate as Harry deepened his angle, fingers buried in Draco's hair, tilting his head up so that Harry could better reach in. Draco pressed back, tongue fighting for dominance, giving Harry that heady rush of as their tongues slipped and slid against each other, bumping the soft insides of Draco's mouth, invading then retreating as they took turns to give and take.

It was the same position they had been caught in, stealing an illicit meeting at the height of the terrors of the war. The Order had been unforgiving. Harry's position had been declared compromised. The weight of his title as the Boy Who Lived had saved him from being thrown out of Grimmauld Place for his brided loyalties. It would not be enough to save Draco now.

When they finally parted, they were both breathing heavily. Draco's hair was mussed and his lips were swollen red. Harry was shocked to discover that what he wanted to do most was not throw Draco down and have his way with him, but tuck him against his back and hug him and hold him.

So he did.

For the rest of the night, they were quiet. Morning would come. Till then, they would wait.


End file.
